Poem - Sandra from Bandra

She boards the 9.30 Bandra local

With fellow passengers she is quite vocal

Don’t you have eyes, can’t you see?

I am wearing my brand new saree?

Oh, Sandra from Bandra, my maiden fair

Won’t you meet me tonight at the Bandra Fair?

To have a some bread and some sor patel

At the Bandstand, oh dearest Sandra, please tell.

She is late to work; “Oh these fisherwomen

They think they own the railway, yeah, men

“Just watch, I will teach them some manners

Let me get my foot in; fit in some corners."

Oh, Sandra from Bandra, my maiden fair

Won’t you meet me tonight at the Bandra Fair?

To have a some bread and some sor patel

At the Bandstand, oh dearest Sandra, please tell.

That Katlik boy in office, Frank Furtado

Serenades her every day with a Fado

He is good-for-nothing, I tell her, he can’t jive

He can’t talk, he can’t sing, even to save his life.

Oh, Sandra from Bandra, my maiden fair

Won’t you meet me tonight at the Bandra Fair?

To have a some bread and some sor patel

At the Bandstand, oh dearest Sandra, please tell.

Can’t see you, I have to attend mass

Novenas, confessions, I have no time to pass

Not you, not Frank, no one except Prince Charles

Or, could be, Prince Williams, Prince Harry of Wales.

Oh, Sandra from Bandra, my maiden fair

Won’t you meet me tonight at the Bandra Fair?

To have a some bread and some sor patel

At the Bandstand, oh dearest Sandra, please tell.

(Originally written to be performed at the Bandra Festival, but, sadly, time and inclination didn’t permit.)

Poem: To The Loose Cannon (Dedicated to Manoj Rane)

Friend, my only regret is

Our coffee, which I will miss

Chatter and shared muffins

What’s this talk about coffins?

Till we meet again, Manoj Rane

On the shores of a city where there’s no pain.

Till we meet again, Manoj Rane.

I might’ve forgotten your birthdays

Or, failed to connect more on Facebook

A book in which for every friend you gain

You lose one and then make friends, again.

Till we meet again, Manoj Rane

On the shores of a city where there’s no pain.

Till we meet again, Manoj Rane.

Now that you are gone, I am back to the grind

But things about you still linger in the mind

You were so concerned, afraid of death

Oh! You should have held on to friendship and faith.

Till we meet again, Manoj Rane

On the shores of a city where there’s no pain.

Till we meet again, Manoj Rane.

I still think of you being so close as ever

A call away, not knowing you left for ever

Or your smile, your pique, or your laughter

Or, on lazy evenings, our shared idle chatter.

Till we meet again, Manoj Rane

On the shores of a city where there’s no pain.

Till we meet again, Manoj Rane.

--------------

To my friend Manoj Rane, may his soul rest in peace.

The 8.30 a.m. Train Girl

Like ghosts passing by day and night

Each day we come into each other’s sight

In the train stations of our life

No sindoor; you aren’t anyone’s wife.

Talcum on your face, kohl-lined eyes

Bindi on forehead, a walk that defies

The world and its ways; all your needs:

A man, a bedroom, a kitchen, some threads.

In the search for this ersatz world

You don’t know why the world is cold

For your sweetness that never fails

You must suffer the men who cavil.

My advice: Beware of their devious ways

They rape with eyes, whistle their life away

They blackmail, lie, promise to say the vow

And then go looking for their wild oats to sow.

They would touch you in the crowd

Pinch where it hurts, make gestures crude

Or, stalk you, blank call you, write obscenities

In toilets, trains, anywhere they can print lies.

Through storms and floods your train must pass

Your phone’s no comfort, no, even in first class

No machine can help against nature’s fury

Even when tears make your sight turn blurry.

This 8.30 a.m. train’s a vile place to be

Don’t tell me I didn’t warn you, you’ll see

And when you are smarter, your world more settled

Remember this day, and the verse a fan composed.

The Cuckoo's Call

The cuckoo’s sweet serenade
Echoes everywhere this summer day
Perfidious, polygamous, promiscuous
They call you this not without reason
Despite your sweet soliloquy
You are a treacherous bird
Deceiving crows, ugly scavengers
Laying eggs in their naïve nests.

But I love your cadences
Echoing over the hills
Rising symphonic in the sky
In harmonious melodies
In summer’s stifling heat
When sweat pours and
The mind seeks respite.

Cuckoo, you sweet siren
The elusive Sylph
Ephemeral wanderer of the forests
If you deceive the crow and fly away
Would your children caw like the crow?
Or, sing the perfidious song of summer
In the valley of our habitation?

Barrel of the AK-47

This chunk of metal
This cold barrel
Can spit death
Sear flesh
Rend blood vessels
Splinter bones
Mutilate organs
Enter and exit bodies
Transform men
Into lifeless corpses.

Agreed
It can do all these
Plus avenge hurts
Spread hatred, fear,
Disrupt life
Make widows
Create orphans
Take entire nations hostage.

But can it bring justice?
I don’t know
Justice is a slow process
Full of hurled abuses
Debate and rhetoric
And hearing choked voices
Telling of people’s grief.

Those teenage armies
Destiny’s children
Slinging AK-47s
Posturing
As if they were John Rambo’s;
Do they know
Poor cannon fodder
That there’s an AK-47
Waiting around the corner
Nursed by another’s fingers
To end their dreams
Take them a step closer
To The End?

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Where the tradition is old but the spirit is still young.

Welcome to Kala Ghoda
Welcome to Kala Ghoda
Welcome to Kala Ghoda
Where the tradition is old but the spirit is still young.